


Allegiances

by cosmophilia



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22695145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmophilia/pseuds/cosmophilia
Summary: What if the Civil War can be resolved in another way? My take on how it could have been handled, with heavy influence from the politics of Game of Thrones.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**I. Balgruuf**

The war was far from over, Balgruuf assented, as his eyes roamed the vast plains he calls his charge, littered in blues and reds. The reds occupied his view by Fort Greymoor, the blues to the Silent Moons Camp and Halted Stream Crag. While this thought was not made in jest to Ulfric's men, the current predicament they found themselves in, somewhat underlined the contrast between these two forces. The Imperial army was somber in their camp, red tents scattered in an orderly fashion. If he strained his ears to listen in for any activities in the fort, he'll hear only the ringing in air caused by hammer hitting metal, or by steel versus steel. Whereas the other camp boasts of brawls, and mostly, of songs and merry-making. Only the other day did his scouts report that several men had fallen to their deaths in the trap previous bandits had carved out of the earth in Halted Stream Crag—no doubt intoxicated.

It is with certainty that the Jarl of Whiterun surmised that even before this war has completely concluded, it would have bled Skyrim out of sons and out of stocks. At the back of his mind, when this frivolity Ulfric calls his war had died out, a bigger and more powerful foe will emerge from the shadows and take this land by the knee it had fallen into. The thought invaded his sleep and at times, his waking hours; the moment he lets his guard down—as it is doing right now. He shook his head and turned away from the Great Porch, clasped his hands behind and made his way inside the keep. He decided then, that he'd be a fool to let Skyrim die before him. He's a Nord of this cold north, and will fight for her liberty, either from both its former master or from its usurper. But he'd also be a bigger fool to go against these many men—the time to call upon brothers and sisters for aid has long passed, and his small number of city guard, even with the Companions should he invoke their help, is not enough to even go against the mass outside his walls.

Should they choose to agree to a truce and siege his city, there's no doubt that what would be left of Whiterun are all but ghosts and a burnt legacy.

It made him wring his wrists upon entering his keep, before his eyes caught a figure hovered over the map in his war room. Beside her were Frothar and Nelkir, whose brows were knit together in an effort to make sense whatever this woman was relaying to them.

"So you mean to say," Frothar started, before clearing his throat upon seeing the woman's eyes narrow at him, " _my lady_ , that Skyrim is littered with mounds that serve as dragon burials, yet even with the bones of Numinex affixed at the throne room, people regard them as legends?"

Her response was a curt nod to the young man to her right. "Until Helgen." Her voice was calm, but he knew behind those eyes that he share the same color with, she was reliving the scene again.

 _Until Helgen_ , it rung through his ears. Helgen, whose burnt and ravaged grounds will be Whiterun's future should he choose not to act upon it. To her left, his youngest son twined his fingers with hers. With a light tug, he was able to drag his aunt from her memories. A small smile was his reward, and once more, the three of them hovered over the map, his presence either unwelcome or unnoticed.

"Do you think we'll be able to see a dragon in flesh soon, my lady?" Inquired the small child.

Her face looked pained, but schooled it in a neutral fashion associated with her nowadays. "I should hope not, my little lord," she replied, before swallowing down her apprehension, "Dragons are volatile creatures, and would breathe fire or frost until you are nothing but a sack of bones before them."

She paused, as if to consider her next words, before uttering them. "Save for one I hold dear, I suppose."

The excitement unabashedly surfaced in the face of his first born, and a bit meek in his last.

"Can we see him?" Frothar asked; his eyes wide with awe until it spotted his father before them. He cleared his throat loud enough for the other two occupants of the room to notice. "My Jarl," he greeted with an incline of his head towards his direction. "Father."

His actions were mirrored as well, murmurs of "My Jarl" and "Father" followed. Balgruuf almost smiled at the display before him. In just half a year, his cousin had schooled Imperial court mannerisms to his children; a lesson his sons had to learn without supper when they refuse, and one his only daughter had soaked up—befitting her station as a Jarl's daughter.

Frothar's recklessness was subdued slowly in the course of those months, replacing it with an eagerness to learn how his keep worked and what he can do as heir and how his actions can affect lives. Only three-and-ten and fast approaching his next nameday, he was becoming the lord he was born to be. With his continued practice with Commander Caius, and at times, the Companion Farkas, he only hoped he will become an impressive warrior in his own right. His callous arrogance, one that used to remind him of Ulfric in their youth, has been humbled so far. No longer does he hear of Lars Battle-Born being pushed in the water upon the bridge to the entryway of the keep, nor of insults hurled to other noble houses in his city.

Dagny, in all her eleven years of coarseness due to her upbringing without a mother or any lady of the court to give her the time of the day, had charmed her way back to the hearts of those usually at the end of her ire. Fianna and Gerda were awash with tears when she'd made her peace with them. Since then, she'd greeted him the way that warrants his position, and was only haughty when he'd made a mess of her braided hair. "A good morning to you as well, my lady," he remembered saying in reply to her greeting before breaking their fast, his hands mussing the intricate detail of her hair. "Father!" she'd cried out then, moving a few steps away and her face scrunched up in annoyance. But when it widened in a smile, he felt his own lips curve up in response. She was radiant in a way her mother had been—a ghost long forgotten in these halls by all, save for him.

He had always been assured that his youngest was quiet and discerning; such was his way upon his introduction to this world. He cried only when pulled out of his mother, but immediately calmed down when placed upon her arms. Blue eyes, much his own, stared up at him when the babe was presented to the court. The same eyes that regarded him when he thought nobody was looking, same eyes now peering at the map spread before them. Nelkir had been used to hiding in the shadows to avoid his older brother and everyone else, but now nine and full of curiosity, he has finally learned to step out of it. He still isn't used to being addressed to in a large gathering of people, though.

Much like right now, his head stayed low, as his aunt and brother met his father's gaze, waiting for his assent. Which Balgruuf gave, as he stepped forward until he reached the table. "What have we here today?" He inquired, and noticed Frothar's face brightening.

"A lesson about dragons, " He replies, gaze darting to his aunt then back to him, "would you care to join us?"

"Perhaps another time," the Jarl of Whiterun replied, before straightening up. "I ask for an audience with the Dragonborn. Privately."

Frothar nodded and turned to his brother, who mirrored his action before turning right and descending to the Great Hall. He took his time to address the woman in front of him, clad in a summer dress befitting her upbringing; she looked every part of the Imperial noble she was. An Imperial noble, who was thrust into a world and responsibility she did not ask for upon setting foot in Skyrim. An Imperial noble, who was equal parts an Imperial and a Nord. An Imperial noble, who held more than just an impact in the conclusion of this civil war and the end times.

He exhaled a long breath he didn't know he was holding, and met her eyes.

"A battle strategy, I presume?" She inquired, hands folded neatly at her middle. "Else you'd see it fit to address a concern in the Great Hall or in the confines of your solar."

"Yes," was all he said, now carefully considering his words. "I loathe saying this, but it will influence the war we're enduring."

"Very well, let's hear it."

The silence that followed was deafening, and he felt himself wanting to take it all back, to allow her the freedom she pursued. Still, she stood tall and awaited his strike.

"Marriage."

The passive face before him was quiet, as if mulling his words. "We are of the same mind." Blue eyes shifted from him, _through him_ , as if addressing the wall behind him. "But I never dwelled on it, seeing as I have nothing to offer but a promise of an heir, and possibly my sword hand. Marriage to one side will drag Whiterun with it, cousin." Her eyes refocused on him, and he hoped her next words were the ones he wanted to hear, "Are you prepared for the repercussions of the offer you bring to the table, my Jarl?"

"I am. I also find it in me to withdraw the offer and allow you a choice of your own." He met her gaze straight on, but found himself softening. "It is your lifetime we talk of, not mine."

She nodded, and in the silence that followed he felt as if she was chewing on his words.

"I do not request for an immediate response, my lady." Balgruuf found himself saying, "We're of the same blood, being made half of it does not make any difference. I will not gamble you in a game I can very well shield you from."

The Dragonborn, Lady Elaira of Skingrad, smiled warmly at him. "A powerful battle strategy, as expected from a man for his people," she acquiesced. "Although I say we are of the same mind, this is an offer you put forward, an offer you will take part of. An offer I willingly accept.

"I've been regarded an outsider in this cold province, and I will not deny it. I am unfamiliar with your old customs as I am familiar with my Southern ones, and ask you to make this arrangement possible for me—"

"No, I offer to serve as your envoy for this matter and seek what each side can offer you. I shall meet you once again to bring their offers to the table, for you to decide. It's the least I can do for dragging you to this."

"Balgruuf," she spoke, eyes narrowing. "You have a city to run. A city that can't afford to lose their Jarl in times of strife!"

"I will not be lost to them," he confirmed, "Only a fool can think to harm a neutral piece in their war. Doing so can catapult a city to the other side and gain more enemies."

"And the wrath of the Dragonborn," she added with a small smile.

He returned her smile. "In two days I ride to Windhelm to hear the Stormcloaks' offer," he announced, voice firm and brokering no arguments, "after which I ride to Solitude to hear the Empire's offer. You can expect my return no less than a moon's turn and we'll meet once more in this table."

She dipped to her curtsy on the other side of the table. "As you will it, my Jarl."

He grunted his assent and walked over to offer his arm. "Come, my lady. Supper is upon us."

With her neatly tucked hand by the curve of his elbow, the descendants of Olaf One-Eye made their way to the Great Hall, a better future for Skyrim pictured in their thoughts.

* * *

**II. Jorleif**

The Jarl of Whiterun's contingency can be seen even as far as Kynesgrove—his yellow banners bearing the horse sigil fluttering wildly in the mid-morning breeze. He and his entourage are blessed with a fine weather for riding north; seems whatever it is he wanted to present in Ulfric's court was smiled upon by the Divines. Speaking of his Jarl, the man stood stiffly beside him by the gates. His eyes were narrowed to the approaching mass of ten strong men, as if gauging the cause of their visit from afar. Jorleif is no fool, he is aware of the bad blood between Ulfric and Balgruuf, but it had been a childish desire to be better back then, at least for his liege. He's just not entirely sure about the older man, who had dismounted from his steed and now making his way across the bridge to meet them by the gates.

Jarl Balgruuf was accompanied by his Dunmer housecarl and his ten soldiers—among them three of the Companions; two men that conspicuously look like each other, and a woman with fiery hair. Garbed in fur and armor, they look as if ready to wage war right at the gates. When they stopped a good distance from Ulfric's own men, Balgruuf's voice rang through the stiff air.

"Jarl Ulfric."

Said man nodded his assent before replying, "Jarl Balgruuf." As if on cue, the Windhelm guards went about their positions and opened the great gates. "I bid you welcome to Windhelm. As honored guests, your rooms have been arranged for in my halls. My hospitality is yours."

This time it was Balgruuf who returned the nod. "You have our gratitude."

With the greetings exchanged, Ulfric led them through the gates and into Valunstrad. The Hold's occupants stood, rapt in awe as they went. No doubt when evening falls, every Hold may have heard of Balgruuf's visit northward, and possibly rumors of Whiterun joining Ulfric's fight.

Jorlief showed them to their respective rooms by the lower stairs, where Wuunferth the Unliving's own room is by the end of the hall. At least the other soldiers were. Balgruuf, his housecarl and the Companions were housed in the upper hall, with Ulfric's own room by the end of it. They were given time to settle down before being called to sup.

Now refreshed and able to shake a few tired limbs here and there, decorum states that the guests carry on with their business. Quite frankly, Jorleif himself could not wait any moment longer. The missive only spoke of _'an offer that could perhaps aid in tiding the war beset upon our beloved motherland.'_ He and Ulfric agreed that it could be that Whiterun is finally joining their fight, but also agreed that coming to request an audience with an entourage isn't called for nor required of them. It was only upon further perusal that conveyed their disappointment.

_'I, however, do not trust in placing my offer upon paper. This is something I must relay to your court, as well as Solitude's.'_

_"Does he take us for fools?" Galmar found himself saying, his fury unbridling, "He plans to dance for the Imperials as well? Might as well take him prisoner the moment he walks inside those gates!"_

_"No."_

_His neck snapped to face his liege, who had turned to him as well before continuing._

_"Whatever cards he have on his employ, he intends to use it well. Much like choosing whoever bids the highest."_

_"What can a Jarl trapped in the middle of the war possibly bring to our table?"_

_Ulfric turned to his elderly steward, who then held the housecarl's attention._

_"The Dragonborn is in his care." Jorleif said, as if confiding confidential information. "She is his cousin by the younger brother of his sire, who went and wed an Imperial noble. Unwed with a sizable dowry, her familial connection can make any man she marries a lord both of Northern and Southern seats of influence." He cleared his throat before continuing, "She's a Thane in eight Holds and has ownership of lands in all. But it was by being the Dragonborn of legend and defeater of the World-Eater that claims most merits, if ever we were looking for one. Her choice which to side in this war will be one to tip the stalemate we currently have. People will flock to her side with the desire to fight with the legend turned flesh. Inspiration, as you know it, is currently low on our side. Would be good to bolster the spirits of the men fighting—in my opinion."_

_"Then why won't she grace us her presence, sling an Amulet of Mara around her neck and be done with it?"_

_Jorleif simply shook his head, "As the Jarl has said, Whiterun intends to choose carefully which hand to play them. The Dragonborn as you know her, is highborn. You cannot overlook that, lest you risk dragging her honor to the mud, and possibly get fed to dragons."_

_With that, Galmar only grunted._

The elderly housecarl smiled at the memory, as the Jarl of Whiterun, his Housecarl and the Companions approached the dais.

"Jarl of Whiterun, honored Companions," Jorleif greeted, "I welcome you to the Palace of the Kings. If you'll so kindly state your intentions..."

Balgruuf nodded, "I'm here in behalf of Whiterun, and the Dragonborn."

"Very well," Ulfric assented, sitting upright in his throne and addressed the Jarl before him with eyes reminiscent of winter, "Let's hear it."

Galmar stood by his side, stiff and wary.

"I offer allegiance by marriage."

Five words, and it took the hall by storm. Balgruuf allowed his eyes to wander, gauging the reactions of the nobles around him. Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, for instance, was livid. He was suddenly at his wife's ear, whispering frantically. It's no secret in the court that he was trying to secure his remaining daughter, Nilsine, to sit beside Ulfric once he'd won his war. From where he stood, he can clearly see the man going red.

"The Dragonborn, Elaira, is of my sire's blood. As court dictates, I am to find a husband for my kin, as she has no other living relative in Skyrim fit to give her hand away."

Suddenly, it was as if Galmar's rage went unchecked again, and he found himself stepping towards his guests. "You disgrace this court by offering someone with Imperial lineage, Jarl Balgruuf," he barked.

Instinctively, Balgruuf's own housecarl stepped forward; a hand to the pommel of her sword.

"Steady yourself, Dark Elf," he spat, "I've no intention of crossing blades with the likes of you."

Her response was to glower at him, but she took a step back beside her Jarl; her stance now tight but not in offense.

"I don't deny your accusation, Galmar." Balgruuf intoned. "But you forget yourself. Do you not pass by the plaques that greet you upon exiting those doors?" He pointed to the direction of his intent. "My blood descended from Olaf One-Eye, a High King of Skyrim!" The Jarl's voice boomed, and Galmar felt himself chastised. "Do you overlook a stronger claim to the throne, as well as the fact that she saved your lives when she defeated the World-Eater?"

Galmar shifted his weight to the other foot, and uncomfortably inclined his head. "Apologies," he uttered in a low voice. He had meant to say something more, but refused, lest his tongue betray him once more.

The Jarl of Whiterun's only response was to eye him critically before turning his attention to Ulfric once more. "She is of age that can guarantee living heirs. Along it, her sword arm and power at her disposal are yours. As well as the loyalty of the Companions, whom she leads now as Harbinger upon Kodlak White-Mane's death." The three other guests inclined their heads at their mention. "And you'll have one more Hold to support your cause. All these, should you decide to make a wife of my kin." It was his turn to incline his head now, awaiting an answer.

The steward glanced at his liege, and saw him absently staring at the wall far across the hall—a manner to speak of the deep thoughts he found himself in. Jarl Balgruuf definitely came prepared. He took Ulfric's drive of a legacy as bait, and he succeeded.

"This is a generous offer you've given, Jarl of Whiterun," Ulfric Stormcloak said, the walls reverberating at the wake of his voice. He stood from his throne and once more looked at his noble guest. "I am of age to consider marriage and secure an heir, and my hold and its riches my primary offer. But if she takes me and we end the tyranny of a dying Empire together, I will honor her by placing a crown to her name and offer her the whole of Skyrim."

There was silence in the halls. Jarl Balgruuf lowered his head even more, and spoke, "You have my gratitude for considering my proposition and stating your offer, Jarl Ulfric." He then straightened, his expression betraying none of his thoughts.

"Of course," his liege answered, "I would need each and every man and woman ready to fight."

The Dunmer housecarl winced as if physically hurt.

"Having Whiterun's men and the Dragonborn's influence and power, could definitely turn the tables to our advantage."

Balgruuf's face remained passive.

"All of Eastmarch thanks you for this offer, Jarl Balgruuf." Jorleif spoke, cutting through the stale air that managed to eat up the silence in the hall. "Please do join us for a feast in your honor and for the future of a united Skyrim."

* * *

Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, whose name is Irileth (he discovered as they followed him out of the Palace) and the Companions were quiet on their journey. In addition to knowing the housecarl's name, he found that the two warriors who look like each other were named Vilkas and Farkas—twins—thoroughly unheard of if he's being honest. The lady is called Aela, and together with the Dragonborn they are collectively called the Circle. Jorleif felt both intrigued, at the same time wary, that he's in the company of the first-tier members of the famed warriors. He first showed his company the Valunstrad, where the wealthy lives, then the Stone Quarter. It was when they reached the Grey Quarter that the silence has been broken.

"Grey Quarter, you say?" The Jarl asked, a brow up in confusion.

"I admit, it's a bad jape at the expense of those who reside here," he replied, feeling a bit sheepish, "No offense to you, my la—"

"None taken," was the Dunmer warrior's curt reply, her scarlet gaze not leaving the state her kinsmen lived in, "Permit me to ask, has the lady Elaira visited Windhelm before?"

Jorleif nodded. "In the whole month that she stayed here, she's done quite a lot. Helped us with a murderer on the loose, as well as favors from folk around. Became a friend to your kinsmen when she knocked Galmar's brother out cold." He gave a hearty laugh and saw the tension ease from Irileth's face. "She's a dear to Argonians, as well. Shahvee, I think her name is, had asked for her more than once." He turned to face the Jarl, eyes still crinkled in a smile. "Said she wanted to express her gratitude for talking sense to Torbjorn Shatter-Shield to give them a raise, as well as for doing a special favor. Ah, I think she approaches. Shahvee! A moment, please."

The Argonian, lithe in stature, approached with almost no sound. "My lord," she greeted, casting her gaze downwards, before turning to others, "Distinguished guests."

"This is Jarl Balgruuf, a blood relative of the Dragonborn." Jorleif spoke, gesturing at one then the other. "He's come to offer her hand in marriage to our Jarl Ulfric."

Shahvee's tail tensed, and she visibly gulped. Blinking, she turned to the Jarl and bowed, "That is a misfortune I will never wish upon my lady," she said stiffly, before hurriedly exiting.

When Jorleif turned to his guests, there was a certain look in the eyes of the Jarl. His housecarl, though, was on to something else. Upon her face, was a look of understanding, as if acquiescing a knowledge shared only to her.

* * *

**III. Irileth**

It had been two days since they left Windhelm, but the housecarl can't shake off a chill that certainly did not come from the weather. The night Elariel sought her out was still fresh in her mind, as if it happened just last night. She remembers scoffing at her words, saying, _"I'll be fine, mockery isn't something foreign to me."_ Seeing the Grey Quarter for herself pushed forth an avalanche that threatened to consume her.

_"You're a good woman, Irileth," the Dragonborn had said, eyes gazing into the cup of wine before her, "I know you will protect your Jarl to your best abilities." Blue eyes then turned to her, threatening to drown her in them, "But allow my words to act your shield once you're there."_

The Dunmer warrior scoffed as jest, but assented. She forgot the lady's words as soon as she woke up, but remembered them upon seeing the filth her kin lived with in that wretched city. The Argonian was right—handing her to a man indifferent to the suffering of others is a misfortune she won't wish upon her. Or anyone. She turned to her Jarl, and saw him deep in thoughts as well. _I hope he's crossed out possibilities of marrying her into that man._

Their trip to Solitude was uneventful, save for the occasional wolves and bears taking the same route. They were nearly upon Robber's Gorge—and knowing full well of the ambush bandits are prone to make, they approached with bare steel. What greeted them instead, is the charred remains of a sketchy fort, and the red banners of Solitude, as well as the black of the Imperials barely swaying in the windless afternoon. Up front, is General Tullius himself, atop a dark steed.

"Jarl Balgruuf," he called out across the field, "Solitude bids you welcome. Allow me to escort you to the Blue Palace at the behest of Jarl Elisif."

Her Jarl then urged his horse forward, stopping just before the Imperial General. "A nice surprise seeing you outside your war room, General."

The other man smiled stiffly; one that barely reached his eyes. "Fresh air can do us good, as I'm sure you've found. A few exercise as well." He gestured to the torched ruins around them.

"I see the Empire spared nothing, eh?"

"Nothing less of a welcome you ought to have."

Both men stilled, before their fists collided with their chest as greeting. General Tullius smiled then, a tiny fraction of youth spilling out amidst the stress of war.

"Once a Legionnaire," Balgruuf assented, "always a Legionnaire."

* * *

This is one of those moments she hoped the Dragonborn was with her. Even if she's across the hall, once someone said something foolish enough to warrant laughter, their eyes would find each other. They'd have a shared look full of mirth; even if outwardly their faces betrayed none of their countenance. It was only in the privacy of the Great Porch were they able to laugh to their heart's content, with a goblet of wine in their hands and possibly with Hrongar, who recounted whatever was said in his own funny voice—usually making a nearby guard try to stifle his laughter and fail. _Ah, those were the moments,_ Irileth mused, as she gazed upon the hall she stood in.

Right after her Jarl had declared his intent of finding a suitable husband for his cousin (also saying he made the same offer to the Stormcloaks-gaining a few side eyes here and there), the fool named Erikur had the gall to stand up and address everyone in a manner she's willing to pay good gold for Hrongar to reenact.

"It would be an honor to wed and bed the mighty Dragonborn, Jarl Balgruuf."

The way the Jarl tensed told her he was fighting more than the desire to cut the man down where he stood. Instead, he cleared his throat, and locked his gaze to the only man he thought compatible.

"This is an offer to General Tullius."

With that the court erupted in a chaotic murmurs, but both men only held each other's gaze; one questioning and the other brokering no arguments. The time seemed to have stopped until Jarl Elisif cleared her throat and with stern eyes, addressed the older Jarl. She was about to open her mouth when the Imperial General beat her to it.

"Jarl Balgruuf, a moment, if you may."

* * *

"Tell me you jest," Tullius said with a tone of exasperation, hands clasped behind him and eyes up in the sky.

"I did not come all the way here for a bad joke, old friend."

The general looked at him then, his disposition did not give away anything, but Balgruuf sees the way he's working his jaw as if carefully piecing his words. "I've my time occupied with this damned war to even take a wife in the midst of it. Surely the Dragonborn's—"

"I have said it before and I will say it again. She offers more than a promise of an heir and comfort. She's a renowned fighter in her own right with power that can possibly win you this war."

"That is exactly why, Balgruuf." The wistfulness in his expression was not something one would surmise coming from the taciturn General. Not breaking eye contact, he continued, "I have nothing to bring to the table. Whatever lordship my father could have given me in the south had long been my brother's. I cannot offer her something that isn't mine." It hung heavy in the air, but the Jarl knew it was Skyrim that he refused to mention. "I was auxiliary at seventeen and a General at thirty-five and well on my way to my forties. I've no time to learn how to properly court a lady, nor have I any time at all to spare to think of a future with one." He broke his gaze and let it fall to the grass below. "The future I see for myself right now is dying; fighting for a cause I think is right."

"So did I, once." Balgruuf said, his own small smile plastered on his face. "Until I came home with a dead father and a will for me to marry a woman of his choosing. It wasn't right, living with a stranger with the intent of siring heirs and someone to sleep beside with every night, but one day everything just fell into place. When I held my firstborn I felt a newfound purpose in life. I wish for you to feel the same, friend."

They stood in silence once more, each one preoccupied in their thoughts.

"Let's say I take you up on your offer," Tullius spoke, breaking the silence, "what are the chances I don't get shouted to oblivion the moment I said the wrong words?"

Balgruuf looked at him dead on, but mirth was in his eyes. "Well, spouses of Dragonborns have long since been buried, yes?"


	2. Assurances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, the other version nobody asked for

To say Balgruuf did not like it was an understatement. Irileth stood stiff, as her liege hacked and hacked _and hacked_ the defenseless training dummy into shreds of fabric and floating pieces of straw. She knew that she didn't have to look around to see that every activity around them has ceased, that every pair of eyes were on their Jarl. She knew she ought to call them out, to avert their eyes and carry on their tasks, but truly, she knew she couldn't blame them.

Just minutes ago, they were breaking their fast—for it had been a long time since they were gathered around one place. Or rather, since the Dragonborn last stopped by.

Six months since Ulfric's uprising was quelled, the Legion has been roaming about, snuffing out any remains of the Stormcloak forces camped in the hills, awaiting another spark to incite war. Most were granted amnesty, while others put up a fight—opting to die in battle just as their former liege had gone down. The Dragonborn had taken to writing to them twice. One letter to be read in the Great Hall among the Jarl's court of distinguished guests for the night. They'd grown in number, Irileth noticed, since they started reading her letters in public, as if they thirst to know more of the lives beyond Whiterun gates. The other letter however, was for the Jarl and his close confidants' ears only, in the privacy of Balgruuf's solar. While her official letters as Legate of the Imperial Legion and Thane of Whiterun spoke of victory and lives improving under their watch in different parts of Skyrim, her personal letters tore at them raw.

Amongst other things, she spoke of returning weapons to grieving widows, watch them either try to shove them out of her house in a flurry of rage, or worse, break down in front of them. She recounts one such scene—with most of her soldiers excusing themselves. Some she'd spied with wet eyes, save for one Quaestor who stayed with her and the widow.

_"Mama," a tiny voice called out, and there emerged a boy not older than seven clutching a wooden sword. The sight of his mother weeping, crumpled on the floor with two Imperial soldiers must have struck him wrong, for with a battle cry, he descended to the Dragonborn, his wooden sword above his head—_

_The Quaestor simply stood in front of his Legate, and took the blow. One, two, three, and the wooden sword flew out of the uneven grip of the boy's hand, forgotten, as he threw himself in front of his mother, seeking to shield her from them._

_"Stop!" He had croaked out, tears already falling from his face, yet he remained firm in his stand. "S-stop hurting my mother!"_

_His mother responded with pulling her son into her embrace, as they both wept._

"There was nothing I wanted more in that moment, than to give them an embrace of my own, to weep my tears for their loss that I might as well be the cause," she'd written, in her letters stained with what Irileth can distinguish as tears, "A promise of protection that no harm will befall their family so long as I'm alive."

_"Return in the morning," the widow breathed out, as she picked herself up, her son long asleep in her arms and retired to their quarters._

_The Legate then turned to her charge, a found bruises blooming on his jawline and arms. She mustered a healing spell, but the Quaestor shook his head._

_"Don't, please," he said quietly, "so I may not forget."_

It was this story that reduced Dagny into a crying mess that the Jarl had to carry her to tuck her in the soonest she exhausted herself to sleep. _'War changes people indeed,'_ the Dunmer mused then, and with a silent prayer to whatever Divine listened to prayers at that moment, to bring her dear friend home, and let no more bloodshed tear this land asunder.

It had been six months of anxiously waiting each letter to arrive, or for an Imperial missive to convey condolences in its stead. That is why when she arrived in Dragonsreach, in the cloak of the night as they ate their supper, it was the Jarl's children who elbowed each other out of the way to get to her first. For his part, Jarl Balgruuf was overjoyed with the return of his cousin, and a feast was prepared in her honor the next day. A hunt had taken place, and now the keep was abuzz with activity and people, seems the whole of Whiterun joined their Jarl in this moment of joy.

During the best part of the morning as they gathered in the Great Porch, exchanging stories and roaring with laughter as mead flowed, an Imperial courier made his way to their table. Unlike most merry-makers present however, he seemed to cower from it, his face bearing the urgency he held himself with.

"A letter, for the Jarl of Whiterun," he called out, his harried expression not lost on Irileth as Balrguuf beckoned him to come closer.

"Why not join us in our celebration, friend?" The Jarl asked, before taking the letter proffered to him. "The war has ended and our families are back home, all the reason to rejoice!"

The courier instead bowed curtly after being paid a small bag of septims by Proventus. "I thank you for the offer my Jarl, but I'm afraid I must decline." After excusing himself, he went away as fast as he'd arrived.

Hrongar instead raised his tankard of ale and cleared his throat to address everyone. "To the tenacity of couriers, may they live long!"

So did everyone raise their tankards of mead and goblets of wine. "To couriers!"

Balgruuf however, examined the letter in his hand, as if sobered up by its presence. Irileth noted, that he has not handed it to Proventus to be read aloud, and there are only two letters that deserve such distinction—the Dragonborn's personal letter and a letter from the Emperor himself. Her Jarl's silence and the letter brought forth a foreboding only she and the Dragonborn seemed to feel.

"Words of congratulations, perhaps?" Elaira offered from her seat beside the Jarl.

"One way to find out," he replied, as he broke the seal with his thumb.

Suddenly, the world felt too quiet despite the celebration around them as Irileth zoomed in to the Jarl's varied reactions upon reading the letter. A quick glance in front of her told the same was going on for the Dragonborn as well, as her eyebrows slowly knit each other in worry. Balgruuf's merry mood grew somber. Quietly, he placed the parchment down and excused himself from the table. Everyone watched, rapt in awe, as he stood in front of the training dummy and unsheathed his war axe. As he stood admiring the blade as it glinted in the morning sun, the Dunmer and the Dragonborn stood up and shared a look of worry, both half intending to restrain him from what he intends to do until—

With the ferocity of a challenged man, he descended upon the poor object, a battle cry shaking the walls of the keep.

Curiously, Elaira picked up the letter and read out loud: "To the esteemed Jarl of Whiterun," before she promptly closed her lips in favor of reading with her eyes.

Hrongar and Proventus blinked at her, as if waiting for her to continue. She didn't, but the paling of her face told them whatever the contents of that letter is unfavorable, judging from the Jarl's reaction and now hers. She fell in an ungraceful thump to her seat, to which Dagny wrinkled her nose on. The air was empty, as if whatever activity that roused the keep from its long slumber has ceased—too quiet it was, that the chair scraping on the floor as Proventus stood up can be heard ringing, and the grunts as the Jarl landed hits on the dummy. As well as his footsteps as he neared the Dragonborn to extract the letter from her limp hand.

He cleared his throat so that it caught the attention of Hrongar, the children's, even Irileth's from afar. His eyes skimmed the elaborate word maze, as Royals tend to shroud their intentions with unnecessary details. It seems—until he got to the meat of the missive.

"An opportunity to further solidify and knit tightly the relations... Asking for the hand of the Lady Elaira and the Empire's—"

Dagny stood up, a pained expression pulling at her face. "My aunt is to marry the Emperor?!"

Not for the first time today, silence enveloped them and nobody dared to move. Except Balgruuf, who now turned his attention to the second dummy in the hall. The steward recovered first and looked at his young charge in disbelief. "No, Dagny, the Emperor is wed. He seeks the Jarl's approval of the match between Elaira and," he paused to clear his throat and let his eyes wander to the eyes awaiting his next words. Even Nelkir is hanging onto it. But when he perused the parchment in front of him, something else caught his attention. He continued reading, felt his eyebrows shoot up at the added information and looked at the Dragonborn. She returned the look, face still pale, and gave a nod.

"They seek allegiances by way of marriage." She said, as though she still doesn't know what to do with that knowledge.

Dagny, ever impatient, slammed her palms to the table. "And who, Proventus? Who?!"

"General Tullius," he replied without preamble.

As if on cue, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, from a line descending from Olaf One-Eye, crumpled to the floor mid-strike.

"Guards!"

* * *

They all stood in the chamber just outside the Jarl's quarters. Guards have been dismissed to partake in the festivities just outside the wooden doors. Gerda and Fianna, the housekeepers, stayed with them. Perhaps there is some fondness to be found after the man you've served in years to count has passed out. Irileth should know, she feels the same. Seems everyone present has sobered up; Commander Caius and Proventus are engaged in quiet murmurs, the latter assuring the former it isn't a security issue nor the Jarl is poisoned. Hrongar, Nelkir and the Dragonborn sat quietly, probably mulling on what just transpired. Dagny was pacing the floor, and Frothar was telling her to settle down. Farengar Secret-Fire came out wringing his wrists from the Jarl's quarters. He addressed them all and said, "The Jarl is … fatigued. Exertion on an empty stomach full of mead isn't really good for the health, and we all know he's not getting any younger."

Frothar stood, his boyish features etched in concern, "Father will be alright, then?"

"Yes," came the wizard's reply, "I'd advise that he get some uninterrupted sleep for now. Gerda and Fianna, make sure the Jarl has plenty of water as soon as he wakes up. Prepare a hot bowl of soup with some morsels as well, he'll likely be famished after that display he did."

The children breathed out a sigh of relief, so did the steward and housecarl.

"See," Hrongar piped up, seeming still to mull over things, "this is why I tell him not to let his sword arm go flabby."

Proventus seemed ready for another verbal spar as they wont to do, when Dagny crossed her arms, all four and ten bundle of haughtiness ready to be unleashed.

"What's so bad about marrying the Imperial General?"

Elaira winced, while Nelkir, who had been keeping his tongue in check so far, thought it was a great time to butt in.

"Dearest sister, if you think none should be bothered to be bothered with this match, I suggest you marry the general then."

When color exploded in her face up to the tips of her ears, it took everyone's will not to slap themselves. _'Why is everyone so hell-bent on verbally attacking each other?'_ Irileth wondered.

"I think," Elaira had said then, and everyone turned to her, "we all need a moment to collect ourselves."

* * *

That was how they found themselves minutes later—gathered in the Great Hall with warm spiced wines in their tankards. Frothar turned to his aunt and asked, "We didn't get to the letter's contents, did it say more about anyone else?"

Elaira nodded. "Seems the Empire is vying to form closer ties to Skyrim now more than ever, and fealties are now taken seriously by plotting marriages from one noble family to the other."

"To ensure loyalties further," Proventus supplied, the letter still in his hand as he scanned through it, "he intends to revive the old practice of noble sons being wards to different Holds."

Hrongar, previously sedated, now was livid and smashed a fist to the table. "Send children as hostages to ensure loyalty?! How low can the Empire possibly—"

"I do not agree with it completely," the Dragonborn breathed out, "seems risky to foster an Imperial supporter's child to a Hold previously occupied by Stormcloak forces. We talk of possible kidnap, or worse." She chewed on her bottom lip now, staring deep into her goblet.

"But!" Dagny exclaimed, face bright that it seemed unreal to her brothers that she can just cut into when adults talk. "If aunt marries the general, she can appeal that this request be forgotten!"

Proventus looked at her disapprovingly, but remembered something, "Dagny, your hand was also asked for in the letter. Jarl Korir has a son your age and a match between you has been suggested or rather, sought after."

The child paled, and her brothers exchanged grins. Still, Dagny sniffed, and refused to be daunted, "Figures they'd pit highborns to this matter. What of my brothers?"

"Frothar to be ward of Markarth and Nelkir to Solitude. There are other arrangements for other children of nobles as well, but it ends with the Jarl's cousin and children, for now."

"I'm curious as to why they'd pit commander and subordinate, however," Irileth asked, before turning to Proventus, "any specific reason as to why the general is their candidate?"

"The Ruby Throne has languished long without one with Dragon-blood to sit upon it—"

"But Martin Septim's sacrifice ended the need for the Dragonfires to be lit..." Nelkir mused, and his aunt softened at him.

"I'm glad you're learning your history, Nelkir." She commented, and the boy gave a little smile. "Seems to me the Emperor plans to abdicate, but needs his assurances to be met."

Irileth lit up in realization, "What better way to make assurances by marrying the Dragonborn to their most loyal servant?"

Elaira nodded. "Brilliant plan, I must say," she said dryly. "Perhaps retiring to High Hrothgar doesn't sound so bad."

**Author's Note:**

> I was cleaning up my cloud drive and found this unfinished piece, aptly titled 'idk lol 2.0'. My intention when I first wrote it years ago (I can't believe 2017 was three years ago already), was to tie it in with Creativity and Journey, with two more chapters telling of the Dragonborn's ascension to the Ruby Throne. Alas it didn't happen, so it ends here. Might as well post it out here, rather than delete it; makes for a decent keepsake... I guess. I have a light-hearted but different version of this that I might post as a second chapter, but I'm telling you right now, that it ends as abruptly as this one did. Let me know if I should, would be nice to hear anyone's thoughts. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


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